


Tomorrow (it's you and me)

by Haepherion



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies), Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gay slur mentioned, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Slash, Torture, Violation of Geneva Conventions probably, Violence, bad things happen to Benji Dunn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:31:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4556028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haepherion/pseuds/Haepherion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should feel a lot more momentous than it is. It should feel like freedom. But the only thing Benji can focus on is his next breath, of breathing through the sudden rush of pain he feels from the bruises on his beaten body. Benji’s at least grateful that Lane had told his men not to beat Benji in the face, otherwise the others surely would have caught on by now. </p><p>---</p><p>Or, the one where Benji is tortured by Lane's henchmen before having the bomb strapped to his chest, and Ethan figures it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow (it's you and me)

            “You owe me tickets to see _Turandot,”_ is the first thing Benji says. He’s only trembling a little, muscles still tight with anticipation and adrenaline from having a bomb strapped to his chest a mere three hours ago. He clenches and unclenches his fists, doing his best to remind his body that there’s nothing to freak out about anymore, no reason to keep watching the shadows.

 

            Ethan, on the other hand, hardly seemed phased by the fact that he’d just spent the last two hours of his life crashing through glass windows and being shot at. In typical Ethan Hunt Fashion, the man turned down medical attention with a wave of his hand and an impatient “they’ll heal on their own.”

 

            Benji would have argued the point, because the damn bastard was _bleeding all over the floor_ with some of the nastier bullet grazes he had sustained in the shootout and fight, but of course, he’d learned long ago that arguing with Ethan was about as effective as arguing with a brick wall. And less enjoyable.

 

            Off in the distance, bells chime and Benji counts out the tolls; it’s one in the morning, the streets of London quieter, but still not completely silent. A drizzle of rain starts up and Benji smiles at that—it might be his favorite thing about his hometown. It’s comforting, after everything that’s happened, to know that the world will keep spinning and the London skies will keep being grey and rainy.

 

            “What?” Ethan murmurs from the passenger seat, flicking the windshield wipers on. It takes a little while for Benji to regain his focus on what their conversation was about.

 

            “I said, you owe me tickets. To the opera.”

 

            And inexplicably, Hunt bursts into laughter, hands going loose on the steering wheel and perfectly shiny white teeth gleaming in the illumination of streetlights. Tension bleeds from his shoulders.

 

            “What?” Benji demands faux-indignantly, because he really _does_ love the opera, thanks very much, and if Ethan’s got a problem with it then he can go ahead and shove it right up his—

 

            “We just dismantled the figure head of the most dangerous terrorist organization in the world, and you want to go to the opera?” Ethan shakes his head, a smile still on his lips. “You’re some guy, you know that Benji?”

 

            Benji smiles and lets the unspoken _takes one to know one_ hang in the air, and doesn’t bother repeating it out loud. Complimenting Ethan too much might let it get to his ego, and god knows that it’s already big enough. Benji says as much and it makes Ethan laugh again.

 

            “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Benji.”

 

\---

 

            At some point while driving to the high security prison, Benji lets his exhausted and sore body doze asleep, because the next thing he remembers is waking with a jolt when the car stops.

 

           There’s soft rock playing on the radio. Ethan is craning his neck, reversing backwards into a parking space. He winces a little when the motion pulls on some of his wounds, but cuts Benji off with a warning look before he can point it out. _Later_ , _we’ll deal with them later_ Ethan doesn’t say, but Benji knows him well enough to be able to read his glances in a heartbeat. And plus, Benji isn’t one to talk. Still coming off an adrenaline rush, his injuries are just starting to ache again, hurting every time he so much as _thinks_ about them.

 

           The walls of the prison loom ahead, 40 feet of towering concrete walls reinforced with steel and barbed wire tops, and for one wild second Benji thinks _he’s_ the one that’s about to be locked up, for treason against his country, and for conspiring to harm the prime minister.

 

            Then Ethan is giving him a tired smile and a quiet “we’re almost done,” eyes still sparkling with energy. He parks and pulls up the parking break, unbuckling his seatbelt swiftly.

 

           Benji forces himself to wake up, stepping out of the car and into the cold night air, blinking a few times to clear his vision. He tries to hold back a grimace, his aches and the bruises from the beating he had received at the hands of Lane’s henchmen positively _throbbing_ , but they can wait. If Ethan can strut around with bullet grazes decorating his body, then Benji can damn well deal with a few bumps and scrapes of his own.

 

            There’s already a giant prisoner-transport vehicle parked up ahead of them, blue police lights still spinning around. Benji forces himself to look, to reassure his panicked brain that yes, they indeed still have Lane in captivity. He snorts at himself. _In captivity_ are apt enough words to describe Lane, a man who resembles a snake, or Lord Voldemort, or some other disgustingly slimy animal of the like.

 

            His phone reads almost 2am, and it’s then it hits him that he hasn’t slept, really slept, for almost three days. Since he’d landed in Vienna, it’s been nonstop movement. Like a bloodhound, Ethan doesn’t stop until he’s finished a mission. Even moments between being shot at and running away from Lane were occupied with planning and anxiety, fear that Lane could be hidden around any corner, waiting to attack them.

 

           They didn’t need to do this. Their job ended when they captured Lane, another impossible mission once again complete. They had even gotten reassurances from a British MI6 agent, visibly embarrassed, that Lane was secured behind bars, but of course Ethan always liked to personally see to it that people were put where they belonged. _Thorough_ he called it, though Brandt always scoffed that it was unnecessary.

 

Hunt’s steadfastness had saved them on more than one occasion, despite everyone else’s complaining.

 

            Brandt and Luther climb out of the car behind them, Brandt nursing a giant cup of coffee in one hand. Luther nodded solemnly at Hunt, and then the four of them walk towards the steps of the prison and up, into the entrance.

 

            “I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” Luther grumbles as they enter the doors. Benji decides not to mention that they’re not getting paid at _all_ for this particular mission.

\---

 

            The inside is everything and nothing like what Benji expects a high security prison looks like. Everything is uncomfortably sterile, walls bland and undecorated, a constant reminder that there is no way to drill a hole through the reinforced concrete to the other side.

 

            The warden is stern looking, but forces a grim smile and a handshake when he sees them.

 

            “IMF? I’ve only ever heard rumors,” the warden says.

 

            “Yes, and we like to keep it that way,” Ethan shaking the man’s hand just as firmly. Neither of them offers names, and Benji tries not to roll his eyes at how “clandestine” they’re acting. Not like the entirety of Europe hasn’t seen their faces plastered all over the 11pm news, or anything. Or the fact that they shot up a café, and fourteen people were injured.

 

           But of course, MI6 and CIA will sweep in and do “clean up” of the incident, feed the media some reports and lies about gang-related fights, or some turf dispute or whatever to keep them out of the news. Benji’s learned that half the war is politics, and he’s glad their job ends at capturing the terrorists, instead of having to cover their asses and make up lies to appease the public.

 

            Ethan and the guard have hardly finished their handshake when there’s a loud _buzz_ and then the door is sliding open, this time letting in team of security guards in a circle around Lane.

 

            There’s surprisingly little fanfare about the whole ordeal, and before Benji can really get his wearied mind to process what’s happening Lane is standing across from them, handcuffed arms being held up so they can register his fingerprints into the system and he can have his mug shot taken.

 

            For some reason seeing Lane, criminal mastermind extraordinaire, the man who had almost blown up a London café, who’d killed hundreds of innocent people without a thought, in a plain, prison regulated orange jumpsuit borders on one of the most bizarre and hilarious things Benji’s ever seen. He chokes back a laugh, biting his tongue to keep from bursting into hysterics, and gets a concerned side-eyed glance from Ethan in response.

 

            There are no theatrics. No “this isn’t the last you’ve seen of me!” or any other hatred-fueled promises from Lane. He refuses to meet anyone’s eyes, despite Ethan’s glare being strong enough to probably bore holes through Lane’s head.

           

           Benji doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe some heated exchanges, some mocking barbs, but instead there’s just silent tension in the air. The mood is somber—they all knew what was at stake, what would have happened if they’d failed this mission.

 

            And then Lane turns and looks directly at Benji.

 

            All of a sudden he’s frozen like a deer caught in headlights, breath stuck in his throat, heavy weight of the bomb strapped to his chest, buzzing with each passing minute, Lane smiling down neutrally at him and telling him there’s no hard feelings, that people have to get hurt before true progress can be made in the world, and now, Lane smiles at him still, a gleam in his eye that tells exactly how much he _knows_ he’s affecting Benji, even as he steps away and turns back around and—

 

            Ethan’s hand is suddenly on Benji’s shoulder, and he doesn’t even realize it at first, the heavy weight just another added pressure.

 

            “Focus, you’re safe,” says a voice close to his ear, and Benji grabs onto it like a lifeline, forcing his brain to concentrate on the hand on his shoulder, kneading in comforting squeezes and steady pressure and slowly, slowly he comes back to himself. To the concrete walls. To the quiet thuds of Lane’s feet as he’s led away to rot in prison. To Ethan’s reassuring hand massaging slowly and firmly against his shoulder.

 

            To Brandt giving him a weird look, eyebrows raised.

 

            “Hey man…you okay?” Brandt says, and it’s not exactly the subtlest thing to say, but that’s Brandt in a nutshell, ever so direct and blasé.

 

            “Y-yeah, exhausted,” Benji mutters, and it’s not even a lie--saying those words take an enormous effort to utter. Brandt, for all his bluntness, can take a hint when he needs to and shuts up, shifting his troubled glance for the moment.

 

            Benji watches as the guards guide Lane around a corner and then he’s gone into the bowels of the prison.

 

            It should feel a lot more momentous than it is. It should feel like freedom. But the only thing Benji can focus on is his next breath, of breathing through the sudden rush of pain he feels from the bruises on his beaten body. Benji’s at least grateful that Lane had told his men not to beat Benji in the face, otherwise the others surely would have caught on by now.

 

           Ethan’s hand gives Benji’s shoulder one last squeeze and then it’s falling away. Benji can feel his heart thudding painfully in his chest, and it’s both a comfort and a terror, loud enough to remind himself that he’s still alive, that they _escaped_ , that they won this round. He can think it all he wants, but he knows from experience that it will take a little while for his body to stop freaking out. _Just a physical reaction_ , he reminds himself, lest he lose his shit in the middle of a prison.

 

            He wholly misses the worried look from Ethan that follows him all the way out and back up the steps.

 

\---

 

            Brandt insists they all unwind with drinks after, and it’s not half a bad idea. It’s what they usually do, after a successful “impossible” mission. Today, Ethan buys the drinks, as way of apology for putting everyone in the mission at risk. It’s nothing that they’re not used to, although perhaps no mission they’ve done previously has had nearly as many unexpected twists and turns as this one has.

 

            Benji, for all Irish heritage and ability to drink them all under the table, sticks with one beer for the night. He knows from past experience that wound up like this, drinking will make him more unsettled. It does, however, help a little with the bone-deep ache, and the tenderness he can feel around his ribs. Lane’s men had _particular_ fun kicking at them, though Benji is fairly certain that the ribs are perfectly fine, bruised but probably not fractured. Probably. His left hand, though. That’s another story.

 

            “So how’d it feel being in the maws of danger this time, huh Benji?” Brandt jokes, dropping a shot of whiskey into his beer.  It’s his crass and slightly awkward way of welcoming Benji to talk about what happened, he realizes, but it’s just that; crass and awkward. Benji has no desire to pour his heart out to his coworkers, who have all gone through the same thing, or worse, than he did tonight.

 

            “Hey, hacking into things puts me into more danger than any of you schmucks,” Benji growls, but there’s no heat behind his words. It’s an argument they’ve had before, about what “field work” really means. Ethan’s the one that’s taking the hits most of the time, but Benji and Brandt are calling the shots. They all know that each position is as risky as the other; they wouldn’t be able to function without all of them working together, all of them putting their lives on the line. Brandt though, makes a fart noise with his mouth, and the moment passes.

 

            “Ethan, you’ve got a lot to pay for, busting up the streets of Morocco. That’s probably why they tried to terminate IMF, because of you burning through the budget with a bunch of collateral damage.” Luther says and Ethan gives a long-suffering sigh at his teasing.

 

            The team chatters and Benji focuses on smiling when he’s supposed to, and laughing and scoffing at the right moments. It’s hard to focus, even when he’s hyperaware of everything that’s happening.

 

 _Hyper vigilance_ he read once online, _is a normal response to being in a stressful situation for a prolonged period of time. Anxiety of perceived dangers that are not present._ Benji forces his fingers to stop trembling when he calls the waitress over for another beer. The coolness of the drink feels nice against his hand, which is aching up a storm. Half the fingers on his left hand are broken, the other ones probably sprained. In any case, the coldness of the beer will help ice them, until the swelling goes down. 

 

            Brandt and Luther bust Ethan’s balls over Ilsa while he pointedly deflects their questions of whether or not he’s going to try and find her again. Benji laughs, maybe a hair too loud, because all of a sudden three pairs of eyes are on him, all of them colored with emotions ranging from confusion to concern.

 

            “I uh, sorry, gotta use the little boys’ room,” Benji mumbles quickly, making a beeline towards the bathroom.

 

            The bathroom is dark and dingy and a fairly gross place to be, half of the row of lights broken and leaving much of the bathroom in the dark. There’s another man standing at one of the stalls urinating, whom Benji steadfastly tries to ignore as he splashes some water from the faucet into his face.

 

            The water is cold and Benji suspects, not all that clean, but it’ll have to do. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the man at the urinal shift, gaze flickering over to Benji. The man is pale, square shaped wire frame glasses sitting high on his hooked nose and the man, it can’t be, is suddenly Lane, turning towards him, and Benji backpedals, back colliding painfully with the ceramic sink behind him, and the man is stalking towards him.

 

            “Hey, fuck off, fag, quit staring at my dick,” the man snarls, zipping his pants. He looks different, now that Benji can see his whole face. His nose too long, features too sharp to be Lane. But Benji could have sworn… the man slams the bathroom door behind him as he leaves.

 

            Benji shakes from head to toe, gripping onto the sink behind him with both hands because he knows if he lets go, he’ll collapse into the floor. Which, honestly, doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all, if the floor would open up and eat him whole because he probably spent the last five minutes staring at a random stranger taking a piss in the bathroom, and shit really can’t get any worse than this.

 

            There are three knocks at the door and then someone else is entering, and it’s Ethan.

 

            Benji coughs, tries to straighten himself up against the sink because frankly he’d rather be caught dead than shivering and cowering against the sink like he is now.  He grunts quietly, scowling when his ribs twinge again.

 

            “Hey Benji. I’ve got a question to ask you.”

 

            “Uh, sure,” Benji says, trying not to wince at how strangled he sounds. He coughs, forcing himself to count out his breaths evenly, despite the fact that every time he breathes in it feels like someone is wrapping his chest in a bind, tighter and tighter. _In…2…3…out…2…3…_ he tries to breathe normally.

            “Yeah, I didn’t want Luther to give me shit for not being able to fix my own laptop. But uh, if you’re free later tonight, I’d love if you could take a look at it. Shit’s been acting up like crazy, can’t get any work done on it. And, well, you know tech better than I do.”

 

            Benji stares at him. Because Ethan may not be a tech genius, but he could easily hack his way into and out of a protected server base, any of them could. It was part of their standard training, part of the qualifications needed to even be on the IMF team. There’s no way that he doesn’t know how to at least do some simple troubleshooting on his laptop, not unless he was surfing some seriously bad sites and got a seriously bad virus.

 

            “Uhm…it’s ok if you don’t want to, I can take it back to the shop, but I’d have to do a total wipe on it first, there are some files on there that are pretty sensitive. I wouldn’t want them to fall into the wrong hands—“

 

            “Sure, I can come over and take a look at it,” Benji says shakily. Ethan smiles big. “Great! I think my room is on the same floor of the hotel, but a few doors down from you. I’ll come knock when we get back.”

 

            And if Ethan notices Benji trembling from head to toe and so soaked in sweat he looks like he just finished a marathon, he does well by not saying anything about it.  

           

\---

 

            It isn’t until he’s back at the hotel when the exhaustion _really_ hits Benji, coming out of nowhere and making him sag like a ton of bricks. His muscles ache with tension, shoulders stiff from days of sleeplessness, and yet.

 

            He turns on all the lights in the room, eliminating all the shadows, and when that isn’t enough, turns up the air conditioning in the room until it’s too cold to even think about sleeping.  

 

            He sits on the edge of the bed and drifts somewhere in between wakefulness and sleep, fingers digging in to the soft mattress of the bed.

 

            Benji flinches, nearly falling off the bed when he hears three sharp knocks at his door. Dragging himself to his feet, he trudges over to the door, only partly aware of the fact that somewhere in between coming into the hotel room and sitting on the bed, he’d managed to take his shirt, jacket, and shoes and socks off, leaving him with only his undershirt and trousers. It’s also then he notices that he’s still in the same clothes he was in when Lane kidnapped him, and the thought suddenly makes him nauseous.

 

            Through the peephole, he sees Ethan standing in the hallway in worn grey sweats and a white t-shirt, damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead, and his laptop tucked under his arm. Right, his laptop, the whole reason he was knocking in the first place. Benji summons up what little energy he has left, smiles, and opens the door.

 

            “Ethan, come in.”

 

            Ethan smiles back but pauses in the doorway, one ridiculously well muscled bicep leaning against the doorframe, the other wrapped securely around his laptop.

 

            “If you’re tired, Benji, I can come back tomorrow...damn, it’s freezing in here.”

 

            The thought of being alone is somehow even more harrowing than the prospect of needing to stay up for a few more hours, so Benji quickly shakes his head.

 

            “Nah. You were the one running around getting shot at, you should be more tired than me. All I had to do was sit there and look pretty for Lane,” Benji says, going over to the thermostat and turning it up just a few degrees.  

 

            The smile immediately slides off Ethan’s face, eyebrows knitting together like when something in a mission is particularly troubling.

 

            “Probably why Lane picked you, since you’re the prettiest one of us all,” Ethan says, keeping his tone light, and God, Benji could fall to the floor with gratefulness at how great Ethan is at avoiding talking about things, too.

 

            “No one’s ever been able to resist,” Benji monotones as Ethan steps into the room. And somehow, the space feels that much more bright, and that much less claustrophobic than a minute ago.

 

            “Would you like anything to drink? I’ve got water, shitty hotel coffee, and—“ Benji opens the minifridge by the bed— “some really overpriced, knock off soda. My treat.”

 

            Ethan just shakes his head and gives Benji another small lopsided smile, taking a seat at the small desk and setting his laptop on the table.

 

            “I’m good, thank you though. Sooner you help me out, sooner I can get out of your hair.”

 

            Ethan boots up the laptop and immediately the home screen flashes to a program page, the terminal blinking code back at both of them. It frankly looks like a mess.

 

            “Wow…Houston, we have a problem,” Benji says, bending lower so he can peer at the wall of code over Ethan’s shoulder. “What have you been doing, hacking into government databases?” He says sardonically, squinting. The words keep wiggling in front of his eyes. He didn’t drink much at the bar, but lack of sleep, he’s learned, is just as bad as being drunk.

 

            “Scooch, I can’t see the screen.”

 

            Ethan obligingly sits so that he’s only on half the chair and Benji plops himself down on the other half, not even caring that he’s uncomfortably balanced on a straight back wooden chair. Ethan is hot as a furnace, and Benji would think he’s running a fever, but that’s always how Ethan is. The warmth is comforting now instead of annoying; the entire left side of his body is pressed up against Ethan’s solid bulk.

 

            Benji’s brain short circuits, and for a long time all he can do is stare at the screen, fingers frozen on the keys, eyes staring unblinkingly at the commands flashing on the screen.

 

            “Uh, Benji?”

 

            “Yeah, yep,” Benji says, shaking his head to clear it. The words still don’t make sense. He pokes at the keys, wincing when his left hand throbs again. Surreptitiously, he hides his swollen left hand in his lap, and instead switches most of the typing to his right hand.

 

           Eventually, Ethan slings his arm around the back of the chair so that he can get situated more comfortably as Benji works, and the warmth is like a salve—Benji’s a hot second away from falling asleep right then and there, and he isn’t even close to fixing the laptop. Hasn’t even begun to figure out what the problem with the laptop is.

 

\---

 

            The next time he checks the clock, it’s almost four in the morning, and all Benji has done is create a line of code that makes the computer screen dimmer. Ethan has his eyes closed and he’s still sitting on the chair that’s too small to handle both of them, but he’s awake. He blinks his eyes open when Benji finally looks over.

 

            “Listen, mate, I think your laptop is going to have do be programmed from scratch, it’s messed to hell. I could probably figure it out, but it’s going to take me a lot longer. I’m sorry, been a bit of a long week, you know?” Benji jokes, but really, his eyes are stinging with the strain of staring at a screen for so long and no matter the fact that he being pressed up against Ethan’s warm bulk feels like the best blanket in the world, it’s not fair for him to have to wait another 19 or whatever hours for Benji to finish programming his computer.

 

            “You could ask Luther or Will to—“

 

            “They both skipped town on us.”

 

            “What??” Benji says.

 

            “Yeah, bastards, right? Will said he had to go straighten things out with the CIA, so he’s on a plane to America, and Luther said that he doesn’t get paid enough and decided to leave to take a weekend long vacation in Italy. They talked about it at the bar, remember?”

 

            Benji had spent half his time at the bar being paranoid and checking over his shoulder for signs of the remnants of the Syndicate coming after them, but he thinks he remembers Luther mentioning something about a vacation.

 

            “Right, vacation, yeah. CIA, right. I remember,” Benji says, but by the look on Ethan’s face, he still needs to work on his acting.

 

            “This is going to take me a while, so if you want, you can nap on my bed, just grab me your laptop charger” Benji says, waving a hand over to the mattress. “Don’t worry, I won’t let the rest of Lane’s men try and come in here and bust your balls.”

 

            Ethan raises an eyebrow.

 

            “Okay, I’ll sleep. But only if you come with me,” Ethan says.

           

            It takes Benji a moment for his brain to catch up with his body, and when it does his fingers freeze where they are, hovering over the keys. He’s tired, but he’s not tired enough to hallucinate _that._

 

            “Excuse me?”

 

            “Benji. You were kidnapped. You need sleep. You’re running on what’s left of your adrenaline, and once you run out your body is going to panic, and then if you don’t rest, your body is going to shut down.”

 

            “Yeah, and you would know, right?” Benji says, and this time there’s a hint of venom to his voice. Leave it to Ethan to cut the bullshit and get to the chase. Benji is doing _fine_. In any case, he’s long gone past the point of panickingand he is quite sure he isn’t going to crash any time soon. Not if he can help it. Not when he can still see Lane’s creepy smile every time he closes his eyes.

 

            “Benji, you need sleep. We _both_ need sleep. So, let’s deal with the laptop tomorrow. Okay?”

 

            He breathes for a few seconds, trying to muster up the energy to feel annoyed, or angry, or something. But the idea of lying down on a nice soft mattress is sounding better by the second. And then he remembers, this is _Ethan_ and there would be nothing more mortifying than Ethan tucking him in to bed, like he’s some kind of damsel in distress, someone who needs coddling.

 

            “If this is your idea of getting me into bed, you could have just asked nicely, sweetheart,” Benji smarms.  

 

            Ethan laughs and then winks. “Well, maybe it is. You going to turn me down?”

 

            “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Benji says, and he must imagine the relief that he reads in Ethan’s eyes. And God, this is weird, never in a million years would he have imagined stripping off his trousers in front of his boss and tossing his undershirt somewhere so he can go fetch sweatpants and a different undershirt, one that’s not soaked in sweat and the stench of fear.

 

            He hears a sharp hiss of breath, and for a second he thinks it’s himself because holy _hell_ he aches everywhere, his left hand throbbing when he curls it around the band of his sweats to pull them up, his ribs hurting and making his breath stutter, and the bruises on his back pounding agonizingly in time with his heart beat.

 

            “Fuck, Benji,” Ethan hisses. Too late, Benji realizes that he had taken his shirt off, and he’s standing in a hotel room with just his boxers while his boss openly stares at his naked torso.

 

           Benji is suddenly more conscious of his own body than he’s ever been in his life. He’s not _hideous_ by any measure of the word, but he’s not much too look at, early middle age starting to make its mark known on his body. Not to mention the rapidly purpling and blackening bruises decorating his entire back and front like some macabre Jackson Pollock painting gone wrong.

 

            Ethan steps closer, fingers skimming close to the deepest bruise, on Benji’s left side hovering right above his kidney area. Any lower, and the kick that the “Bone Doctor” delivered would have done some serious damage to his organs.

 

            “You need to be in a hospital,” Ethan says seriously, and this time there is no hiding the concern there, no attempts at being jovial. This is Ethan Hunt at his most stubborn, a set to his square jaw that indicates that he is not to be trifled with, and Benji wants to cry, because after all that’s happened, the only thing he can think of doing now is falling into the soft mattress behind him and sleeping for the next 100 years.

 

            “Tomorrow…we’ll go tomorrow,” Benji insists, pulling a different shirt on before Ethan can see the rest of the bruises, lower on his body and still covered by boxers and sweatpants.

 

            “No, there could be some serious damage to your kidneys. Have you urinated any blood?”

 

            “Oh for godssake,” Benji snarls, “this coming from the man who’s still bleeding from bullet scrapes.”

 

            “That’s different, I’ve had dozens of those before,” Ethan says tersely.

 

            “Yeah, and you’re saying? What? I can’t handle a few bruises? I’ve gotten worse, for less.” Benji snaps, and he sees Ethan’s eyes flash with an emotion he can’t place. He sighs. “Look, Ethan…I’m knackered…we’ll sleep. And if I piss a cup of blood tomorrow, you can take me to any hospital you want, yeah?”

 

            Ethan looks reluctant, but Benji can place the moment that he finally concedes. “Fine. But if you’re even worse tomorrow, we are going to the hospital.” Benji nods, exhausted, and too tired to think about what he’s really agreeing to.

 

           Then, Benji is crawling into bed. Ethangets up to go turn out the lights before settling down next to him, a comfortable but safe distance away on the queen sized bed. Benji tries to retain some modicum of decorum, of trying to avoid being completely and utterly embarrassed, but he doesn’t have to worry for too long--he’s asleep before his head even hits the pillow.

 

\---

 

            _“Get him ready,” Lane says, the words falling from his lips easily._

_Benji gives himself a moment to panic, to wonder what in the hell that means before he starts to fight. He tries, limbs flailing from whatever drugs they got him with earlier to knock him out. His vision blurs together and his head spins nauseatingly. He tries to remind himself that this is a good thing, that Ethan has more time now to figure out a plan._

_Benji’s limbs are loose and weak, and the last thing he_ really _remembers is clinging on to a car for dear life as Ethan had barreled through the streets of Morocco. And then vaguely about going to London, about trying to meet with Ilsa, and then—“_

_It hurts to think too much, but he knows it’s what he has to do. Has to find some way to try and signal Ethan and the others, to let them know where he is. He’s got to. If Ethan were in this situation, he’d be able to muscle and fight his way out, combine his combat training and wits to escape, but Benji, he hasn’t got that kind of skill. At least, not good enough to get him out of a situation like this, and God, he really wished he’d paid more attention when they were teaching how to avoid interrogation techniques in Basics school._

_“Wait,” Lane says, as his men are hauling Benji up to his knees. Lane sits down on the couch opposite of them, lacing his fingers together and staring at Benji with renewed interest._

_“Benjamin Dunn, correct?”_

_Benji doesn’t say a word._

_“I’ve read your files. And, I must say, you’ve quite the impressive résumé. Many good skills on there…too good to be wasted running lackey for someone the likes of Ethan Hunt.”_

_Benji tests against the strength of the men holding him down. They catch on immediately and one punches him across the face, sending him barreling to the ground. “F-f-fuck…you-u…” Benji stutters out, in the general direction of Lane._

_“Benjamin, let’s try and be civil about this. What is it that makes you want to work for Ethan? Because I can promise you that whatever it is, the Syndicate can triple that amount. You’re a very talented individual. I’m sure we can come to a cordial agreement to whatever amount it is that you would like to be compensated, to work for me._

_Over my dead body, Benji wants to say, although he’s not quite that eager to die yet. Instead, he musters up as much hatred as he can for the man and channels it into a glare. Lane sighs._

_“Benjamin, my men are very skilled at what they do. They also do not have the same qualms about following any sort of…rules…when it comes to getting what they want. Now, I’m not here to hurt you, I’m here to_ help _you. Can’t you see, how much better the world can be with the Syndicate? Do you know what we stand for? People view us as criminals…but we are far from it. We simply take it within our own hands to correct injustice in the world. Consider us…a modern day Robin Hood organization. Do people not tell stories about what a hero he is, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor? That is what we try to do. We eliminate targets that are stealing from the world. With you at our intelligence helm, we could have anything, no,_ everything _you could possibly want.”_

_And because Benji’s tongue is still too sluggish to move because of the drugs, and because he doesn’t trust his voice to work right in a crucial time like this, he does the next best thing and rolls his eyes so hard that he thinks he strains a muscle in his eyeballs, and for good measure, gathers up as much spit as he can in his mouth and hacks it on the ground by Lane’s feet, defiant._

_Lane sighs again._

_“I had been hoping that that wouldn’t be your answer, but I’m not surprised. MI6 is very good at training loyal dogs, but that’s all you’ll ever amount to, isn’t it? A lapdog for Ethan Hunt, going out and doing his bidding, never gaining anything for yourself. A pity, really.” Lane stands and smooths the wrinkles in his jacket, adjusting his tie._

_“Unfortunately, I do not have the patience to deal with people who disobey me. I have given far too many chances to more deserving people, and you give someone too many chances, they begin to doubt your integrity.” Lane nods to his men, smiling at them,_

_Benji swallows, and sends a quick prayer up to the God he hasn’t prayed to in over two decades that if they kill him, it’ll be quick. Somehow, something tells him that that won’t be true._

\---

 

            _“There are 27 bones in the human hand,” the “Bone Doctor” intones, carefully unfolding an array of surgical tools. Or, what looks like surgical tools. Benji grows cold when he realizes the reason he’s unfolding them is so that the Bone Doctor can use them on_ him.

 

            “ _The hands take up the largest amount of area in your somatosensory cortex,” Benji hears in his head, the voice of his old anatomy professor ringing in his mind. He’d taken the class more than a decade ago, thinks it’s bizarre that the information would pop into his head at a time like this. His fists clench automatically, like maybe that’ll stop the Bone Doctor from trying to break his hand._

_They’ve strung him up, arms tied above his head to some sort of beam on the ceiling and his feet are barely touching the ground. His wrists strain against having to hold his entire weight, fingers quickly going numb. This is good if they’re about to break his fingers. At least that way, he won’t really feel too much of the pain until after they let him down._

_“Mr. Lane told us to go easy on you. He said that you were of a ‘more delicate predisposition’, not like your friend Ethan Hunt,” the Bone Doctor chortles. Benji bristles at the insult, making him try and kick out with his feet, which the Bone Doctor deftly dodges._

_“I disagree with that. You’re not…’delicate’. That’s not the right word for it.”_

_Benji chooses not to lash out again, chooses instead to focus his energy into thinking of how to escape. The chains around his wrists don’t have any give in them. His feet aren’t tied down though, and the pole extends close to the ceiling, but isn’t touching the roof. If he could gather enough strength to get to the top, he would be able to at least get his hands more mobile._

_Immediately, his mind supplies all the errors with that plan. He wouldn’t have the strength or skill to fight both the Bone Doctor and all the henchmen guarding the door. He doesn’t know where he is—he wouldn’t know where to escape._

_There are no windows in the room, and only one door, more likely with another hoard of guards stationed outside._

_Benji begins to shake._

_The Bone Doctor walks closer with steady footsteps._

_“I’m a traditional kind of man. I like breaking people the simple way. No need for fancy techniques, or electricity.”_

_The Bone Doctor is close enough that Benji can smell his rancid breath, and it makes him gag._

_“My methods are much simpler. I let Mr. Lane plan out the details of operations. But he leaves more physical methods to me. Because I_ like _getting my hands dirty.”_

_And before Benji can even blink, the Bone Doctor reaches out and snaps Benji’s left pinky finger, and he lets out a scream, feeling the bone grind down against itself._

_“Normally, Mr. Lane wants me to try and convince our guests to join the Syndicate. Or to get information. But with you…he says it’s personal. And we can consider you a nice message to send to Ethan Hunt. My men…they haven’t been able to catch a break in the past few weeks. I believe in a system of rewards.”_

_Benji tries to focus through the sting in his eyes, biting down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood so that he can focus past the agony of his snapped finger. Fast, the Bone Doctor reaches up again and Benji steels himself against the oncoming pain but it doesn’t do any good._

Snap!

 

            _Benji bites back a scream, swallowing down the rising bile in his throat._

_“So, you’re they’re reward. Mr. Lane only requested that you be alive. But he never specified what condition you had to be in. No marks on your pretty little face though, because that might make Ethan Hunt too angry to agree to Mr. Lane’s terms.” The Bone Doctor smiles, and it’s an ugly, twisted thing._

_Benji feels the bottom of his stomach drop into free-fall._

_\---_

_Benji supposes that if he makes it out of this, he can also add “human punching bag” to the list of things he is, on his resume._

_Lane’s henchmen take a particular liking to brutalizing his ribs. One of them laughs, and tells the others he likes the sound Benji makes when he wheezes._

_And because all the odds and all the stars of the world are aligned against Benji, things get worse from there._

_\---_

            “Benji, wake up.”

 

           

\---

 

            _It’s a blessing and a curse that Lane made them promise not to beat his face in. Blessing, because nobody else in the café can visibly see that Benji’s been beaten halfway to hell. Curse, well, because nobody else in the café can see that Benji’s been beaten halfway to hell._

_He closes his eyes against the urge to projectile vomit all over Ilsa, because he’s pretty sure then that their cover would be blown, and on top of that, the ticking bomb trapped to his chest would blow them to kingdom come._

_\---_

 

            “Benji, wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

 

            Benji whimpers in his sleep, curling tighter in on himself and struggling to get in a large enough breath.

 

            Ethan steels himself to get punched, and then with all his might, shakes Benji awake.

 

            Benji jolts to awareness, his fist automatically swinging out in a wide arc and just barely clipping Ethan’s chin.

 

            “Benji, you’re in a hotel, we are safe,” Ethan says calmly, scooting further away to give Benji his space. Benji clings onto the blankets and stares up with wide eyes, heart pounding in his chest.

 

            “Focus on my voice. We watched Soloman Lane arrested today. We went for drinks at a pub. We came back to this hotel, so you could fix my laptop,” Ethan says, like he’s talking about the weather, or what he wants to have for breakfast tomorrow, low and friendly and conversational. Slowly, Benji focuses, on the bed, on the sheets, on the dim lighting in the hotel room.

 

            He swallows.

 

            “You with me?”

 

            “Yeah.” Benji manages to gasp. He’s drenched in sweat, shivering when he’s not even that cold, and everything hurts as much as it did in the dreams. Ethan, saint that he is, doesn’t press him to talk, just sits calmly until Benji’s managed to cobble together some sort of thoughts and string enough words together to say “how long was I out?”

 

            “Four hours.”

 

            Benji’s eyes flick over to the clock on the desk. It reads 8:30am, and he’s half upset that it’s already morning, because he could really sleep for another decade or more. Somehow, he thinks that his mind probably wouldn’t let him do that. Even now, his eyes automatically go towards the darkened spaces of the room, trying to resist the urge to check over his shoulder, though he knows the only person in the room is Ethan.

 

            “Why don’t we have breakfast? My treat. And then, maybe, we could go see a doctor about your hand. And maybe your kidneys,” Ethan says, staring pointedly at Benji’s left hand, which he had been trying so hard to hide. The broken fingers were now fully swollen to twice their normal size, and turning a disturbing purple color.

 

\---

 

            They order hotel room service, breakfast in bed. Ethan doesn’t ask what happens, filling up the silence with some small talk, but eventually the silence is enough to make Benji cave.

 

            “They beat me up,” he says unceremoniously, “though you probably already figured that out. Don’t remember much, but Lane’s asshats got me with some sort of drug when they kidnapped me. Made me limp as a rag doll. Lane shared his monologue of world domination with me, offered me a spot on his super villain team, or whatever.”

 

            “And?’ Ethan prompts.

 

            “I spit on his shoes and told him to go fuck himself.”

 

            Ethan cracks a smile, though it looks jagged around the corners.

 

            “Guessing he didn’t take that too well.”

 

            “He took it so well, he let his ‘Bone Doctor’ go to town on me.”

 

            Ethan sets down his fork, blueberry waffles promptly forgotten.

 

            “Bone Doctor gave his own creepy little monologue, then broke three of my fingers. Kicked me a few times, then let the rest of his tweedle-dee’s and tweedle-dum henchmen… I became their human punching bag. Not like I haven’t gotten beaten up before, but makes things a bit harder when they chain you up. Wasn’t a fair fight.”

 

            “And then they…” Benji swallows. Then clears his throat. He’s not ready to talk about anything else yet, and Ethan must sense that because he picks up his fork again, cutting a piece of waffle and chewing and swallowing. There’s silence for a while, as Benji’s words sink in, and Ethan processes them. There’s a crease between his eyebrows when he looks back up, but this time, he stares Benji directly in the eyes, hiding nothing.

 

            “Benji. You…I don’t say it enough, but you’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.”

 

            Coming from anybody else, in any other circumstance, Benji would scoff at how cheesy it sounds. How, of course, the leader of the IMF team has to reassure its weakest, smallest member that he’s brave, and worth something.

 

            Benji ducks his head, because out of all the things that he thought Ethan would say when he found out, this was not one of them.     

 

            “You saved dozens, thousands, _millions_ of lives. What those shitheads did to you…if I could, I would see them all dead. You didn’t deserve any of what they did, but hell, Benji, you might have just saved the entire world with what you did. This mission would have really been impossible without you,” Ethan insists. And the words sound so ridiculous, sound so blown out of proportion, because Benji knows Ethan would have found a way to save the world anyway, without him.

 

            Benji doesn’t know what to say, so he goes back to poking at his English muffins in silence.

 

            “I know it doesn’t make it any easier though,” Ethan says quietly, and his voice is painfully honest, the most sincere that Benji’s ever heard it. “Doesn’t help to hear, because you’ll never get to see the faces of those you saved. And what’s the fairness, in getting the shit beat out of you every mission, and have nobody the wiser for it? Have nobody know. No medals, or awards. No big ceremonies for the lives we save, and the people we help. It’s not fair.”

 

            Benji feels himself swallow around the painful lump in his throat.

 

            “But we do it because we’re stronger than everyone else. _You’re_ stronger than everyone else.”

 

            Ethan chews, swallows.

 

            “The nightmares don’t get any easier. After Julia…” Ethan coughs, gives himself a second to get composed, before speaking again.

 

            “It never gets any easier. Any of it. And I understand if, after this, you want to walk away. I won’t question it, I won’t make you stay. You’ve done enough for IMF, Benji, if you want to leave. But…this team needs you. And I need you.”

 

            Benji doesn’t know if he can process everything that was just said. That Ethan, too, has nightmares, that maybe he’s thought about quitting. It’s the first time that Benji has seen him as something _other_ than an unstoppable force, a ball of determination and energy plowing forward and taking down bad guys without so much as a semblance of fear.

 

            Except.

 

            He _had_ seen Ethan fearful before. On this mission. When they’d been sitting in the middle of a busy and oblivious café, when Benji had stared into Ethan’s eyes as the bomb on his chest wound down and down, and Ethan had been _scared._

 

            But that’s all he needs to know, to know that he will never quit IMF. Because no matter how afraid Ethan is, he knows that his talents, that his resourcefulness are what makes him the unspoken leader of the IMF forces. That the world needs him, more than he needs it.

 

            And Ethan needs Benji.

 

            There’s nothing but the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall to fill the silence that follows, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Benji doesn’t know yet how to respond to the deluge of words and information from Ethan, more words than he thinks he’s ever heard the man speak at once, but he knows one thing for sure; he will never quit IMF, not over his dead body.

           

            They finish the rest of their meal in companionable quiet. Eventually, Ethan turns the TV on, and they listen to news reports of those injured in the café shoot out. People got hurt, but less people than what would have, if the Syndicate had taken over the world.

 

           “So, I know you’re going to tell me to shut up. But I think you seriously need to get that hand checked out. What am I supposed to do if my best hacker loses his fingers?”

 

Benji smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> After not writing for months, I sit down and crank this monstrosity out in two days. Ridiculous. Un-betaed, all mistakes are mine (and please point them out if you see them). I may or may not have been unreasonably upset that there are only a handful of Benji Dunn stories, because Benji is awesome.


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